


The Rhythm And The Echo

by Rubikon8



Series: Descendants [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Angst and Porn, Being a nation seems tough, Drama, Historical events?, Human name used, M/M, Smut, Sorry guys I tried, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-29
Updated: 2013-07-29
Packaged: 2017-12-21 18:41:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/903568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubikon8/pseuds/Rubikon8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the eve of the German invasion of the Soviet Union, Prussia goes to meet an old friend. (Russia/Prussia).<br/>drama/angst/smut.<br/>Prussia POV</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rhythm And The Echo

**The Rhythm And The Echo**

_May, 1941_.

The rain has been coming in starts and fits, but it begins to pour in earnest just as the old tavern comes into view; it stands like a weary, weathered traveler on the side of the road. The structure is dark, sagging with the weight of decades and devoid of any ornament, but in Prussia's eyes it is as welcome and familiar as an old friend. His pace quickens as the rain soaks the shoulders of his gray coat and plasters his hair against his pale forehead. His clothes—ill-fitting and plain—were traded to him a few hours ago, from the toothless Polish widow he is renting his room from. The woman had taken his silver pocketwatch, etched with the  _Reichsadler_ , as payment for the set of her late husband's garments. Though it might have seemed an unfair trade, he knew from the way her gaze lingered on his recognizable uniform and his unusual white hair that he was also buying her silence—and for that, he'd have gladly paid her ten times the price.

The inside of the tavern is better maintained than the exterior, its dark wooden countertops gleaming with a dull polish, but a dismal staleness clings to the place. The floor is dusty beneath Prussia's boots and cobwebs cling to every corner. No one is in the tavern, except the man who is behind the bar, scrubbing at a beer mug with an oily rag and appearing to accomplish little more than spread the filth around. The man is scarred, with nothing but a scorched socket where the left eye should be—he lost it years ago, in the Great War from which his father and older brothers never returned. Prussia remembers him, nineteen years old and screaming for his mother—and how his screams, and those of his young comrades, tore Prussia open with the savagery of metal shears.

Prussia is staring, he realizes, when the man—Albrecht—yes, little Al, who was so very small lying in the dirt in his battlefield grays—finally glances up from his work and growls in a gravel-edged voice, "You're late, Gilbert. And you're getting the floor wet."

Prussia shakes off what must be a bit of a vacant expression, trying on a smirk instead. He gestures wryly to the empty tables around him, "Late for what, exactly?"

Al doesn't smile. He sets aside his greasy mug and rag. "He waited—you didn't show."

Prussia drops the smirk. "I—" he starts, then more quietly, "Will he come?"

"Can't say," shrugs the bartender, "He came in every week, for a while. But it's been three, maybe four weeks, since I last saw him. Just got tired of waiting, I guess."

The unspoken accusation hangs in the air.

"It's been hard," Prussia says, finally, "to get away."

"I'll bet."

"They have me under surveillance, Al. It's not like I can just waltz out of Berlin whenever the mood strikes!"

Al snorts, making clear what he thinks of Prussia's pale excuse.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you to keep your opinions to yourself?" Prussia mutters, irritated, as he seats himself at the bar, "I hear it's liable to get you strung up with a sign around your neck, these days."

"I never did like getting involved in politics," Al responds dryly. "But here I am, hosting international summits. You look terrible, by the way," he adds.

"Oh yeah, and you're a real beauty queen yourself," Prussia snarks. He knows what he looks like these days—like he's having his insides shredded, like he spends his nights lying awake in a pool of his own sweat and his mornings puking up bile. It's not the worst it's been—not even close—but he knows it's only a matter of time.

It's not just him, of course. They're all feeling it. For better or for worse, the collective consciousness of each nation is always in flux—it's a fact that has always been a part of their existence as countries, simply threaded into the fibre of their beings. Prussia has seen Austria often in the past several months—his refined beauty has a wasted quality to it now, giving the impression of one who is rotting from the inside. Hungary, too, has lost the spark in her eye, her lips perpetually drawn tight with the fear and pain of her citizens.

And now, they—he—is going to inflict all of it, and more, on another one of his brethren—on a friend. He's going to drag another nation and its millions into a hell that he wouldn't wish upon his worst enemy.

_He doesn't deserve it._

He'd prefer to shoot himself in the mouth, if he thought it might actually kill him.

_None of us do._

"Self-pity never did anyone a lick of good," remarks Al, as if he can read Prussia's thoughts.

"Why don't you just let me indulge myself, stingy bastard?"

"Damn it, Gil…" The bartender shakes his head, "I don't pretend to know your business, I never have. But the last time I saw him, the look on his face—"

"Enough, damn it, enough!" Prussia snaps—half-shouts, really—and Al's expression immediately closes off, his lips pressing into a tight, displeased line.

Great, Prussia thinks, now he's gone and pissed off the one person who's never tried to do anything but help him. Prussia's jaw clenches tight and he looks down at his hands, resting in his lap like those of a child who's been caught in a lie.

After a moment of taut silence, Prussia finally tries, meekly, "How—how did he look?"

"Like hell."

Prussia winces. He had prepared a hundred excuses, all lined up neatly in his brain, but now each one seems flimsier than the next. The truth is, it  _has_  been hard, to get away from Berlin, to wriggle out from beneath the thumb of the Fürher and his men. Messages were likewise risky—he could expect his mail to be read, of course, and smuggling any correspondence out to Moscow would be nearly impossible from both ends. He could have wired a message here perhaps, to this nondescript tavern at the eastern edge of what is now occupied Poland, but should the message have been intercepted, should its origin have been traced—

Yes, all of this was—is—true. But Prussia knows the real reason he didn't come and he closes his eyes against it, ashamed. He should be used to this by now, he thinks. He's not a young nation anymore. He's already experienced the zenith and twilight of his own empire. He's seen how power is obtained, how it is maintained, how men—and nations—turn on each other without hesitation.

He's seen how war is waged.

"Can you pour my usual?" Prussia asks Al hoarsely, when he realizes the man is watching him with his good eye, cool and appraising.

"I'll pour two," he replies after a moment, his tone softening.

Prussia watches quietly as he sets a pair of glasses on the bar. He reaches below the counter and brings out an ancient bottle of cognac, generously pouring three fingers of the amber liquid into each glass. "I'll be in the back. Holler if you need me," he says when he is finished, and Prussia understands it for the concession that it is.

"Thank you, Al."

The rain pounds the roof of the tavern, hard but steady. For a long, long time, the noise is unbroken. Prussia tries not to think of anything, tries not perk up like a dog each time he hears the wood slats creaking in a gust of wind. He's made up his mind, hasn't he? He knows the words he has to say—if, that is, he even gets a chance. If it's not too late.

His thoughts are swirling, spiraling, but then—and god, this dreadful relief in his chest is like cracking, like a sudden thaw—but then the unmistakable groan of rusty hinges reaches his ears. The sound of rain roars abruptly louder as the tavern door opens, and is muffled again as it closes, replaced by the thudding of heavy footsteps.

Prussia forces himself to turn and look.

Russia—Ivan—looks back, those violet eyes as strange and childlike as ever in his handsome face. Water pours off of him, shedding from the heavy wool of his beige overcoat, running in rivulets from his ash-blond hair and dripping from the tip of his prominent nose.

"You are here," says Ivan in English, accent clinging heavily to his words. He almost sounds confused. "Prussia…"

"Well I'm certainly not the queen of England," Prussia retorts, recovering himself, or at least trying to. The hungry look that Ivan is giving him is making it a little hard for him to get his bearings.

"You…I thought…" Ivan shakes his head, as if clearing it, and then crosses the space between them with rapid, purposeful strides of his long limbs. He stops when he is just inches away, looming over Prussia, casting his long shadow over him. When they're close together like this, it's impossible to forget how damn  _big_  Ivan is, how sturdy and strong that body is beneath the formless coat.

Prussia shivers, feeling small. "What did you think?" he whispers.

Ivan doesn't reply, not right away. His enormous hands, still damp from the rain, come up to curl about Prussia's cheeks. Those violet eyes rake across Prussia's face with naked concern—Prussia wishes it were anger, at least that's an emotion he knows how to deal with—and the press of Ivan's thumbs to his cheekbones is gentle, almost reverent. It makes him feel so wretched and low that he wishes he could sink into the ground with his shame.

All he can do is avert his eyes instead, trying to hide what must be plainly written on his face. Yet something of it must show on his expression because Ivan says, unexpectedly, "It's painful, isn't it?"

Prussia's eyes widen and his head snaps up—for a wonderful, terrible moment, he thinks that somehow Ivan  _knows_ , that he's finally accepted what his own spies have been trying to tell him for months—that there are German armies massing at Russia's borders, that Germany—and Prussia—can't be trusted.

But instead of condemnation in Ivan's pale eyes, he sees only more of that uncomfortable pity. So, Ivan hasn't understood anything. He's just asking after Prussia's wounds, the symptoms that are par for the course for every nation when its citizens are suffering. Prussia thinks of the blood that chokes him at night, as German men die on the front lines and German women weep in their beds. He thinks of how much worse it will soon be, and squeezes his eyes shut with a shudder. The myopic, greedy ants in Berlin have set their sights on Russia, and they won't stop until they've set Europe on fire.

"Prussia," Ivan prompts, puts his index finger under Prussia's chin, coaxing him to meet his eyes. "Look at me."

 _I can't_.

"Look at me." Ivan repeats, a command.

Mutely, Prussia shakes his head. He won't. He won't look.

 _I can't bear that expression on your face_.

After a long moment, Ivan lets his hands fall away. Prussia doesn't see his face, but knows he must be staring at him hard, looking for some kind of answer or explanation. Prussia thinks he must be as open and obvious as he's ever been, that if Ivan knows him at all, he will read the answer now. But the seconds tick away and Ivan doesn't do anything, doesn't shout or storm back out the way he came.

"Why did you come here today?" Ivan asks, and Prussia turns away.

"What do you mean?"

Of course, Prussia knows exactly what he means. But he'd rather skirt around the issue, apparently. God, when did he become such a coward?

"You didn't come for weeks, for  _months_ , you bastard. I waited, but you never came."

"I was busy." It's the wrong thing to say, and Prussia immediately regrets the words. Nerves make him glance up, and when he does he feels his heart jump into his throat.

Lightning crackles behind Ivan's eyes, and now Prussia remembers exactly who he's dealing with—not Ivan, the little boy he met wandering in a snowy wood, or Ivan, the man he once kissed so hungrily in a darkened salon in Vienna—it's Ivan, who is Russia, who is all of its lands, its endless winter, its summer storms, the blood of its people, their spirit and their power.

"So," says Ivan through gritted teeth, "You'd take me for an idiot? Don't insult me like this."

"No, dammit, I—" Prussia shakes his head, desperately clinging to his old, used-up lie, "Look, I couldn't get away. I just couldn't."

"You could have sent word."

"In case you hadn't noticed, there's a war on," Prussia snaps, defensive.

"There's always a war."

Ivan is right, of course, but Prussia is stubborn. "What do you want me to say, Ivan? That I'm sorry? Well, fuck, I  _am_  sorry! I'm sorry for all the dying bastards that haunt our dreams at night! Sorry that you and me are even a part of it!"

"I don't want your apologies."

"Then what? What do you want, for fuck's sake?"

"For you to be honest. I hate it when you lie…Everyone is always lying," Ivan says, not with bitterness, but with the hurt bemusement of a child, "Why would you lie to me, of all people?"

Prussia wonders if Ivan knows how much these insinuations of trust are like poison barbs to his flesh. "You're too naïve, as always. You always want to believe the best in everyone—and you can't accept the truth, even when it's staring you right in the face."

"What truth?"

"That you're a damn country!" Prussia slams his hand down on the bar, rattling their empty glasses, "You're not a man, you're a slave! We all are!"

"No, you're wrong," Ivan shakes his head. "We choose. We make choices. You always have."

"Is that so? Damn you, Ivan, would I  _choose_  this? Would anyone?!" Prussia is practically shouting as he stumbles off the bar stool and tears at the buttons of his coat and shirt. Ivan's eyes are eerily calm as they take in the sight of Prussia's mangled chest and belly, the white bandages that cover sluggishly bleeding lacerations.

"I wouldn't choose any of it," Prussia rasps, "I wouldn't—"

_I wouldn't choose to betray you._

Ivan's big hands, firm but gentle, reach out once more. Against his will, Prussia's eyelids flutter closed as calloused fingers brush along his collarbone and sweep up the side of his throat. It's so easy to just give in like this, as Ivan's thumb catches the corner of Prussia's mouth and traces the contour of his lips.

"Don't, Ivan," Prussia whispers, even as he leans into Ivan's touch, steps into the space between Ivan's legs, "Please."

"Why did you come today?" Ivan asks again, his breath ghosting across Prussia's mouth, only inches away. Prussia knows that if he had the courage to open his eyes now, he would be drowning in violet.

_To tell you that Germany is preparing to invade your borders, to kill your young men and rape your young women._

_To tell you that I think I'm dying, that I might not share another winter with you._

_To say goodbye._

He wants to say all of these things, and more.

"I wanted to see you," he whispers instead, the closest thing to truth he can find that he can force past his throat. When Ivan says nothing, he presses forward blindly, fisting his hand in Ivan's shirt and finding Ivan's jawline with his lips. He puts a hot kiss to the Russian's frowning mouth, willing him to yield, to give Prussia something he knows he doesn't deserve.

"Please," he rasps, and realizes he is begging, but doesn't have a cell in his body that cares, that doesn't want Ivan to take him, to punish and absolve him.

"Please," he says again, and finally—god, finally—Ivan responds, his strong arms gathering Prussia's smaller body hungrily against his own. With something like a growl, he ducks his head and crushes their mouths together, his hot tongue lapping at Prussia's lips, demanding entrance. There was never a doubt that Prussia would give in, and he opens his mouth wantonly now, savoring the taste of Ivan and the smell of his skin. His ineffectual fingers scrabble at Ivan's chest, his collar, wanting and clumsy.

Like a ship in a storm, Prussia is thrust to Ivan's mercy. He hisses in mixed pain and pleasure, as Ivan digs possessive fingers into his hipbones, pushing Prussia's back hard up against the bar behind him. One of those hands slips over his hip and under, sliding past the curve of his ass and finding purchase in the meat of his upper thigh.

"F-fuck, Ivan," he groans, head snapping back as Ivan tugs on his thigh, moving their bodies so that their hips slot together as neatly as puzzle pieces, and bringing a sudden friction that is at once fantastic and unbearable. Ivan rolls his hips forward once, twice, and Prussia can do little more than spread his legs, panting for contact.

When Ivan pulls away suddenly, Prussia blinks, a mewl of protest escaping his throat.

"Come here," growls Ivan, tugging Prussia off the edge of the bar. He wraps a hand around Prussia's wrist and drags him across the space of the tavern, to a small door that he knows from past experience leads to a cramped break room— _Oh_.

Ivan shoves Prussia inside and slams the door shut behind them. The room—more like a closet, really—is pitch dark and smells like mold. Ivan hits the light switch and a single, naked lightbulb above their heads sputters to life with an electric hum, bathing the little space in a dim yellow glow. There's cleaning supplies and boxes and all manner of garbage piled across the floor, but in the center of it all is a metal cot, slung with a bare, stained mattress. Prussia has a split second to wonder if the stains are blood before Ivan is bearing down on him, turning him around and kissing him with renewed desperation, pushing his knee between Prussia's thighs and grinding upwards in a way that makes Prussia shudder.

They fall back onto the cot together, Ivan on top. Prussia hardly notices the squeal of the metal frame or the uncomfortable way the springs dig into his back through the thin mattress—he's too focused on Ivan's bulky form braced above him, the light behind his head seeming over-bright and making his face a dark shadow by contrast. His coarse hands seem to be everywhere at once, pushing at Prussia's loosened clothes and pawing at the bare skin underneath. Prussia shivers as he is divested of his jacket and shirt, biting back a moan as Ivan's mouth latches to his throat, suckling fiercely.

"Ivan,  _Ivan_ ," he pants, eyelashes fluttering, his body arching and searching for more contact with the body above his. His nails claw mercilessly at Ivan's back, urging him on, begging for some kind of retaliation. Ivan isn't gentle by any means, but he's frustratingly patient, taking the time to explore Prussia's torso with his fingertips; he traces the raised ridges of old and new scars, skates the borders of bandages and sweeps slowly lower, lower, down the quivering plane of his belly, until every cell in Prussia's body is burning up with need.

Prussia is practically thrashing by the time Ivan's hand goes to fumble at his belt buckle—the way his hand shakes is the only sign that he's not as patient as he makes out to be—and he's eager to lift his hips as Ivan tugs off his borrowed pants and shoes, and tosses them somewhere on the messy floor for him to find later.

He's lying naked, and feels it acutely, with Ivan still clothed and silent and inscrutable above him. Ivan is staring at him, his dark eyes roaming intently over Prussia's exposed body in a way that makes him feel like he is being peeled open layer by layer, like a piece of fruit, until he is finally sure that Ivan sees the diseased pulp inside.

Trembling—lust or fear?—Prussia slides his hand up Ivan's thigh. The scrape of his nails against the fabric of his roughspun Russian infantry trousers is insanely loud in that enclosed space. Ivan seems mesmerized as Prussia thumbs open the buttons of his trousers and then dips inside. His fingers find Ivan's cock and wrap around its hot, hardened length.

" _Shit_ ," Ivan hisses, muscles tensing as he bucks up into Prussia's grip. Prussia responds by turning his wrist, improving the angle and getting his thumb against the slick head of Ivan's cock. He focuses on the feel of Ivan under his hand, on the way that hot flesh pulses beneath his touch—he needs this from Ivan, he thinks, needs to be able to lose himself in this, to give himself up. He needs Ivan to accept from him the only thing he is at liberty to offer.

"Fuck me," Prussia pants, and Ivan groans, dropping his forehead down onto Prussia's chest. "Come on, Ivan,  _fuck me_ ," he repeats, almost goading, his right fist still pumping at Ivan's cock while his left comes up to grip Ivan's shoulder.

With an unconstrained snarl, Ivan tears Prussia's hands off him. He pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it aside before bending to harshly pin Prussia's wrists together above his head. Prussia can feel the delicate bones of his wrists grinding together under Ivan's bruising hold and the pain shoots straight to his cock, "Yeah,  _yes_ ," his mouth falls open as Ivan puts a hand under Prussia's knee and jerks his leg up and over Ivan's hip.

" _Yes_ —ah— _hurry—"_  Prussia arches up, muscles screaming, and Ivan responds by slotting his thumb under Prussia's chin and shoving his index and middle fingers into his wet, waiting mouth. Prussia hums around the thick digits, tongue wrapping around them, slavering over them, lapping at them until they are fully coated in saliva.

"That's it," Ivan coaxes hoarsely, beginning to fuck Prussia's mouth with his fingers, adding his ring finger, pumping in and out, dragging thick globs of saliva across Prussia's lips and chin. When he's satisfied, he pulls his fingers back from the suction of Prussia's mouth with a wet  _pop_.

Ivan lets go of Prussia's wrists, bringing his broad hand down onto Prussia's chest instead, holding him there, just below the throat, and bearing down with an almost-crushing pressure. "Such a slutty mouth," the Russian says, almost admiringly, bending his head to lick at Prussia's lips and chin, while the spit-soaked fingers of his free hand reach down and under to press against Prussia's tight entrance. "Open up for me, baby, that's it," he says, breath hot on Prussia's cheek, fingers pushing up inside him and splitting him open.

Prussia's brow knits with pain as Ivan's fingers invade him. He's no blushing virgin (one does not survive several centuries of best-friendship with lascivious France and amorous Spain by being a virgin) but a few gobs of spit can hardly be considered adequate preparation. It's going to hurt bad—it already does—but he welcomes the friction and burn of Ivan's third finger breaching him.

The pain is actually not the worst he's had—Ivan's touch is confident, and practiced, which Prussia doesn't find surprising. Nations are not human, but they are made up of human desires and deficiencies. Prussia is no exception, as he shifts to find a better angle, and starts to feel static waves of pleasure overwhelm his discomfort. When Ivan bends to kiss him, he tilts his chin up eagerly to receive it. The velvet stroke of Ivan's tongue—coveted and familiar—recalls in some hazed-out corner of Prussia's mind the image of crimson drapes, the taste of metal and gunpowder—Vienna, he thinks again—and then he just can't think at all anymore, swept out by a tide of pleasure as Ivan's fingers crook and find some secret, pulsing place inside him.

"I-Ivan,  _n-now_ ," Prussia manages, teeth chattering as if he's cold, but it's the opposite—he's burning up, hotter than a fever, the sweat beading up on his skin and mixing with Ivan's where their bodies slap and slide together. Ivan obliges, shifting above him, rearranging their bodies. There's a blunt pressure against his opening, and Ivan's hand is bracing still against him like a stone weight, and then Ivan is moving, straining, forcing his way inside.

"Haahn—" Prussia chokes up, throat convulsing—Ivan is fucking  _big_ —and he can feel every hot inch of Ivan's cock as he pushes into him, up to the hilt.

For a moment, Ivan stops. His shoulder muscles tremble with the effort to hold still. The strain in his voice is almost palpable. "Are you—?"

" _F-fine_ ," Prussia forces out, "Just  _move_ —"

Ivan jerks his hips back the smallest bit and then pistons forward into Prussia's resisting body. He does it again, and again, pulling out a little more each time, lengthening the thrust and putting his weight behind it. Prussia can only gasp and hold on, bringing both his knees up and clamping them across Ivan's powerful hips as the larger man begins to fuck him in earnest.

" _Prussia_ ," Ivan says, and drags the name out long and low, sounding drunk and oddly vulnerable. His head dips down until their foreheads are touching, the metal springs of their makeshift bed screaming, and Prussia feels like he's coming apart—the pain is still there but its presence is just faded, fuzzy background noise, superseded by blinding white sparks of heat that jolt up his belly and spine with every thrust.

Ivan is talking now, his soft lips moving almost soundlessly against the corner of Prussia's mouth—it's all Russian, of course, probably nonsense. He groans in-between these maddening, lyrical phrases, his thrusts turning rougher, wilder, deeper—hitting that spot deep inside Prussia that makes him feel as though he's temporarily blacking out. One of Ivan's hands slips between their bodies, slippery palm stroking Prussia's aching cock—erratically, and out of time with his own thrusts, but Prussia is too far gone to care. The air he gasps in is damp, their mingled musk heavy and thick enough to taste. Prussia licks his lips, feels himself coming apart faster and faster, like someone's pulled on just the right thread and he's unraveling into a heap. A sound that is both close and faraway reaches Prussia's ears; it's his own voice, he realizes with the detached aspect of a lucid dream, his own babbling, ugly sobs—and then his body is jerking, clenching, he's coming all over his own belly and Ivan's hand.

"I— _Черт возьми_ —Prussia, I—" Ivan is gasping above him, struggling, beads of clear sweat clinging to his neck, to the tip of his nose. "I— _uhn_ —  _god—_ "

Prussia is afraid—afraid of whatever Ivan is trying so desperately to say, and he grabs onto Ivan, wraps his arms around him and pulls him down onto his shoulder while he rides out the end of his own orgasm. "Come on," he whispers against Ivan's damp blonde hair, "You're almost there,  _Vanya_ , come on, come on, that's it, that's it," and then Ivan thrusts forward with a final, broken moan, his hips stuttering to a stop as he comes fast and deep inside.

For a few minutes—or who knows how long it really is—they lay tangled up together, listening to the sound of each other's harsh, out-of-time breathing. Ivan is slumped bonelessly over Prussia like so much dead meat, his head tucked neatly under the other man's chin. Prussia feels like he's faraway, unable to properly grasp a thought. His eyelids are heavy as he strokes his hand idly over the back of Ivan's head.

Slowly, eventually, their heartbeats slow and their breath becomes even and quiet. Reality begins to seep back into Prussia's fuzzed-out brain, and he is acutely aware of the soreness in his body, the prickle of his injuries and the uncomfortable way his thighs are sticking together.

"Get off," Prussia mutters, pushing at Ivan's chest, "You're heavy."

After a few moments, and with seemingly great effort, Ivan drags himself up off the other's body long enough for Prussia to roll out from underneath him and sit on the edge of the cot. Ivan flops back down on the disgusting mattress as soon as he gets the chance. He is still, ridiculously, wearing his pants.

"Tuck yourself in, you shameless Bolshevik."

"I'm not the one who's bare-ass naked, Fascist," Ivan replies, but makes an effort at least to put himself back in order. The sweat gleams distractingly on his bare, scar-crossed chest as he moves. Prussia swallows, and looks away. He concentrates on finding his clothes instead—they are lost somewhere in the clutter that pads the floor. He finds a shirt, but it's Ivan's. With a snort, he tosses it over his shoulder.

Ivan muses lazily from behind him, "Who knew that all of Russia and the Kingdom of Prussia would fit together in a broom closet?"

"Actually, I think it's a break room," Prussia locates and tugs on his underwear and trousers, wincing as he does so.

"Really? In Russia we'd call this a duplex, if we had a sheet of aluminum to draw it in half."

"Did you just attempt to joke?"

"That depends—are you laughing?"

"No."

"Too bad, I'll have to try harder next time," says Ivan, and then Prussia feels himself abruptly tugged backwards on the mattress, into the circle of Ivan's arms.

"What the—jesus, watch it!" Prussia snaps, squirming. Ivan ignores his protests, tucking the smaller man against his chest and slipping his arms around his waist. He presses a soft, close-mouthed kiss to Prussia's bare shoulder.

"Where are you in such a hurry to go?" Ivan whispers tenderly, nuzzling his nose against Prussia's skin. It's such an affectionate gesture, almost as if they were—

Prussia feels the bile rise in his throat.

— _as if they were lovers_.

Immediately, Prussia stiffens.

Oh god, what has he done? What the hell was he expecting to accomplish by coming to meet Ivan here like this? He had come with the intention of revealing himself as a traitor, not to let Ivan fuck him senseless! He had come for Ivan's sake, hadn't he? To warn or protect him, to pay what he owed to a nation who had always shared with him some weird kind of solidarity, some misdirected attachment.

That's what he'd told himself, anyway.

But maybe, Prussia realizes with a dawning horror, he'd really intended to do this all along—to selfishly take from Ivan under the pretense of giving. He had  _wanted_  to take something from Ivan, not the other way around…

And now—they'd fucked.

They'd fucked, and Prussia knew what it meant, but Ivan didn't.

"What's the matter?" says Ivan, and Prussia sees that he's shaking, his hands clenched into fists in his lap. What can he say now, to salvage this? What can he say, but—

"Nothing," he lies, and is glad Ivan is behind him and can't see his face. He can feel Ivan hesitate, feels unspoken questions and accusations fill the air between them, as invisible and repulsive as the force field between opposite-poled magnets. But the moment to voice them comes and goes, and in the wake of that moment, Prussia understands he will never have the courage to say the things he has to—that he never, he realizes dully, had the intention at all.

Ivan has not forgotten their earlier conversation, the tension in his arms tells Prussia at least that much, but Ivan is stubborn too—in his own way, he is the most stubborn creature that Prussia has ever known. He will never accept a truth he doesn't like. He would take that unwanted truth between his gloved hands and bend it to his will. And Prussia doesn't have the strength to fight against the power in those hands. He doesn't want to anymore.

"It's cold in here," Prussia says, laying his head back on Ivan's shoulder, "I have a few more hours before I'm missed—the room I'm renting is in the village, not too far."

"Alright," says Ivan, gathering Prussia up in his arms and pulling them both to their feet, "We'll go there."

In silence, they pick the remainder of their clothing off the floor and put themselves back together. They smooth the wrinkles out their clothes, comb their fingers through their hair. When Ivan twists the doorknob and lets them both back out into the light, they look neat as pins, nothing to give them away but the bruises on their lips.

Al is nowhere to be found, Prussia notices wistfully. That's too bad. He would have liked to say goodbye to the man. He owed him as much. But Prussia's been a disappointment to just about everyone these days. He supposes he can bear the weight of one more black stain on his conscience.

Outside, the rain has stopped, but the dirt road is turned to ankle-deep mud. Prussia stands on the doorstep of the tavern for a moment, squinting up at a gunmetal gray sky. Ivan is a bulky, solid presence at his shoulder. When he turns, the taller man is close, so close that Prussia's can make out flecks of silver in his purple eyes.

"What is it?" Prussia whispers, transfixed by that long cool stare.

"Nothing," says Ivan, mirroring Prussia's earlier lie. He brushes his knuckles across Prussia's cheekbone, corner of his lip quirking up in an odd little smile. "I just realized, I came all the way to Poland to visit a tavern and I didn't even get a drink."

"Ah, is that what's bothering you?"

Ivan shrugs, bending closer. Their lips barely brush—it's just a ghost of a kiss—but when Ivan pulls back, Prussia is trembling.

"Oh well. There's always next time," Ivan says lightly, stepping out onto the road.

"Yes," Prussia repeats, faintly. He feels like he's breaking in two. "Next time."

Before he follows Ivan onto the road, he indulges himself in a final glance back at the old tavern. He doesn't think he will see it again.

 

**Author's Note:**

> First off, thank you for reading. Feedback and comments of any kind are greatly appreciated. I would truly love to hear anyone's opinion :)
> 
> If you saw any errors/typos, please point them out.
> 
> A few notes about history that impressed me when I was researching this fic:
> 
> This fic of course takes place in WW2, just before the launch of Operation Barbarossa, the German offensive in the Soviet Union in the summer of 1941. At the beginning of the war, Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union had signed a non-agression pact. Essentially, they had agreed on the Soviet Union's non-involvement in the European war. As part of the 'fine print,' so to speak, the pact also included agreements on how they would carve up the territories that lay between the two nations (Poland, Baltic states, Romania, etc). Of course, Fascism and Communism are diametrically opposed ideologies, and Hitler had long viewed Russia as a land populated by inferior "slavics." He and his government had always planned to conquer Russia and its vast resources for the German people, his master race.
> 
> The invasion of Russia and the war on the Eastern Front would turn out to be one of the bloodiest conflicts in history. As Americans, we rarely learn about or see movies about the war on the Eastern Front, nor do we hear much of Russia's contribution to winning the war. In reality, Russia suffered up to 14 million (14,000,000) military casualties. In comparison, the United States suffered less than half of one million - about 500,000 military casualties, and Germany about 5 million (5,000,000).


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